Ah sportfucking. Was that what it was this week? Sunday.. Monday..
Him-in town for a conference. Me-2hrs unloaded boxes into my apartment. A beautiful hotel. Serendipity.
Dinner. Movie. Just vegging out and talking.
Because silly me, I had a good time. And it seemed as if he did. But now…
Flashback.. just a week ago.
We were leaving the movie theatre after little had happened. Mostly just conversation. He asked me to go back to the hotel. I explained that I was having a good time, and that I didn’t want to ruin it. Deep down, I really am a romantic. It’s completely different when you go in knowing its just for the sport of it. But when your heart gets a little fluttered, you get stupid.
Logic kicks in. I explained to him that I didn’t want it to be about sport. He seemed to agree. But if that really is all just charm and not real… which at this posting has not been fully verified, then perhaps a major time out is in order. Or an exclusive dedication to my love affair with the sea.
If you are what you eat, then logically, you are who you fuck.
A little part of me is left with each failed romance. I’ve gotten better at guarding myself.. and even pickier with suitors and bed partners than one would even imagine.
“Love is a battlefield. You don’t need to retreat, but you need to keep your shield up.”
But damnit if my eyes glimmered a little at the thought of someone genuinely appreciating me like I want to believe that he did.. that maybe he does.. but doesn’t know how to face.
I date some great men.. in training. It’s probably part of the reason why release from the textbox world is so surreal.
I read the letters sent to my ex husbands lover (yes while we were still married.. yes somewhere floating online). I’d like to think that I helped him. That me coming into his life, and the string of lovers I have has made them better for the next girl. I’m really a humanitarian, you see.
In the cab on the way to the hotel.. and throughout the days we spent together… when I interviewed the dark horse, I feel perhaps it may have made him really evaluate some things. Which, as I read, he may be affirming he has a problem. At least he acknowledges it. A step in the right direction I suppose.
It’s granted that I would attract screwed up individuals. I’d be lieing if I said I wasn’t screwed up too.
White knights and dark horses. More and more true on so many levels.. but I can’t go into all of the details while protecting their anonomity. It’s not my place to. Names are unnecessary. Faces are unnecessary. Besides this is not a complete look see. And I think, to some degree, you prefer it that way.
Verses of songs echo in my head. Of whimsy and heart. Of the hopeless romantic. Two words that do not coincidently go together.
Of the girl with sidewalk chalk playing hopscotch in the urban jungle. Of blowing bubbles in traffic and dancing on the beach. Waiting for her romeo with robots and wit. (To maybe wise up?)
I sent him a text. I want to know it’s all alright. I want to think I fall into the “most” catagory. I had a good time and I don’t regret my actions. I learned from them, and I’m far from innocent here.
Every girl- even if just in the back of their head- is looking for that certain someone to ride off into the sunset with them. They want someone to save them. They want that white knight, who’s also that dark horse.
Maybe these men aren’t here to save me after all…
Maybe, just maybe…
I’m supposed to help save them.
I wonder what my therapist would have to say about that one. Taking bets that we both chuckle. Oh wait, I don’t have a therapist. Damnit. I guess I’m just fucked… but not literally for once.